Wandering around like a Mancunian at 1 am and the ashes of my cigarettes blending in with the ashes of all the time passed by, and my apartment has never been this cold since the day I opened the door for you.
All the times passed by, and I'm waiting for this year's melancholic epilogue once again. Every memory feels like a long, long time ago, and every Halloween I feel like my life stops, and every Christmas I just sit on my chair like Lieutenant Dan, ruminate about the fabric of time, and get lost in the fray.
I try to look for you in every person I encounter, yet I often find myself feeling let down. sign, "What a waste." Even though, it's all inconsequential.
Guilt and grief hold me tight, and I keep cutting myself to get rid of all the mud you threw at me, and gave me a taste of sweet death and I keep bleeding, but the waters don't go by me. You saved me before but I can't save me from myself. How every year I deviate from my status quo and later status quo comes in paroxysm. Maybe a bottle or few puffs and runaway from it all. But it's transient. Reciprocation is a book, and I only read a few pages, let alone the next chapters, cause the pages are empty. I let go of the hand in this perplexed October, and
I ride horses every year in October and run faraway.
Forgo my heart; I left it inside a suitcase beside the static TV, and it gets wet from all the rain in this room, and get haunted by my rigid thoughts.
Foggy balcony, your keepsake, and I ruminate about you and how things could've been for us, and the time Sufjan Stevens said, "For my prayer has always been love." My mind speaks countless words that I cannot speak, and again, things are left unsaid. Cause we reached our sweet epilogue and I saw it through the disposal polaroid camera.
